


what i have to offer (cannot be enough)

by Nia_dAstarte



Series: you're my king and i'm your lionheart [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 10:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18118574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_dAstarte/pseuds/Nia_dAstarte
Summary: The blade of his sword is drenched in the black blood of the orcs he slew in Moria, and yet it is nothing to the blackness that sits in his chest.Aragorn leads the fellowship into Lórien, where Galadriel is the source of unexpected counsel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It had to happen: What started as an innocent contribution to IFD 2019 ([there will be no more darkness (today)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812247)) has now turned into a [series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1304684). I will continue to walk Legolas and Aragorn through the books and the movies to tell their whole story. Apparently, I am also doing it backwards, so this takes place before the events in [there will be no more darkness (today)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812247). I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> A note for everyone who did not read the books: in _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , the blindfolding episode as recounted here does indeed take place as the fellowship enters Lóthlorien (including Legolas's protest).

The blade of his sword is drenched in the black blood of the orcs he slew in Moria, and yet it is nothing to the blackness that sits in his chest.

Aragorn is trying to clean the blade. His rag slides across, dirty cloth and slivers of shimmering silver. If only the sword he has trusted for so long, the sword that has kept him safe, will be clean again, he will have something to hold onto. He will have someone to rely on, like Gandalf had his staff until it was broken and he fell into the dark and the deep. 

Now it is up to Aragorn to lead them. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who never asked for this. Who never wanted it. The Ranger who offered no more but his sword and his heart to another, the Ringbearer, and to all that is good and worth saving.

And yet, someone has to lead them.

“Legolas, help them up,” he calls out. As he sheathes his sword, it is still sticky with blood.  
It is no surprise, then, that his first offer of guidance, his first attempt at leading them, is rejected. Boromir protests. “Give them one moment to grieve!” 

Inside him, something trembles. It may be his lungs, exhausted from the run, the fight. It may also be his heart, too stricken with grief for another battle, and against someone as formidable as Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor.

But then Legolas moves. Legolas, face stricken with grief, staring into an abyss no mortal man can understand when the immortal face the end of forever. Legolas, as loyal as he is fierce, as knowledgeable of some matters as he is innocent of others, goes to rouse the hobbits, even as Aragorn pulls Gimli to his feet; Gimli, who has not only had to lose Gandalf but also so many of his family and friends and kin. Balin, King of Moria, is gone. Gandalf the Grey, who led him among Thorin Oakenshield’s company to the Mount Erebor, now lies with him, and the last of the Balrogs.

Why? Why did they ever come here?

Aragorn is so close to despair, the breath he tries to pull into his lungs to keep going feels cold as the gaping depths of the mines or the snow on the tip of Caradhras.

But Legolas is walking up to him, with Gimli and the hobbits, and he looks to Aragorn. He looks ready to follow the man he so passionately defended at Elrond’s council.

And Aragorn understands in that moment what makes a leader. It is not wanting to lead. It is preferring to give your life than to disappoint the ones who follow you. They have chosen you.  
He looks at Legolas as Boromir falls in line, if perhaps unhappily. Legolas looks back at him. Aragorn wishes he could say it. If the immortal Prince of Mirkwood can follow me, perhaps I may one day even be a king. 

*

They cross into the woods of Lothlórien, and for the first time since crossing the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, Aragorn feels like the air he breathes into his lungs flows warmly and freely.  
Until Haldír tells them they cannot go further.

*

Aragorn argues. He pleads. He is ready to beg, ready to go down onto his knees in front of Haldír and beg his friend to let them pass. A man who wanted to be King would perhaps not be willing to do such a thing, but Aragorn will not disappoint the ones who follow him. If Haldír chooses to humiliate Frodo by singling him out as a bringer of evil, not as the one who would carry what none else would dare to, not even Elrond, Aragorn will rather be humiliated himself than leave the brave hobbit standing on his own.

Haldír must read it in his face. He gives in before Aragorn can sink to his knees. He gives only one condition: The dwarf must be blindfolded as they enter Lothlórien.

It is no surprise that Gimli objects. Aragorn feels how heavy his limbs are, but he is not beaten yet: “Then we shall all be blindfolded,” he says, “all of the company that set out form Rivendell together and still walk on this earth.”

Even Boromir does not seem to mind. Even Boromir seems to have recognised that Aragorn will now be their leader, at least for the time being. A weight eases off Aragorn’s shoulders, his ribs, his lungs.

Until he hears another voice.

Legolas. It is Legolas who protests. “These are my kin. I do not see why I should walk into the realm of Lórien blindfolded, like a thief or a beggar.”

Something cracks inside of him. Aragorn remembers the black blood still sticking to his blade, remembers Gandalf falling, Frodo screaming. He remembers Legolas catching him on the steps of Moria, and saving him from the onslaught of the Guardian in the water outside its doors; he remembers defending him in the Council, taking Gollum of him after months of hunting, finding him on the borders of the Shire in the old lands of Anor, a grey man of a dead line.

Of course, the opposite is also true: _If you cannot follow me, I do not believe I will ever be King._

On the outside, Aragorn does not allow for any of it to show. He is not blaming Legolas, either. He is blaming himself. A leader such as Gandalf would not have made any of them endure such a farce. He convinces Legolas, as he knew he would, and the Prince of Mirkwood quickly acquiesces.

And yet, the breath in his lungs is once again cold, the blood in his veins feeling as thick as the one on his sword.

This would be easier, he is convinced, if he did not love Legolas so. With the blindfold over his eyes, being led instead of leading, Aragorn can no longer avoid admitting to it. He is in love with two immortal beings, both of whom he has nothing to offer to. One of them he is forcing, however inadvertendly, to wait in Rivendell for the news of his death, finally slaughtered by one dark enemy or another – and even in the best of cases, the news of his natural death after what to her must be the blink of an eye. The other, he is leading towards death, ever closer and closer.

In the end, there is one thing he has to offer them: Death. 

Still, Aragorn allows himself to imagine it, just for a moment: that he could have been the King to Legolas's Lionheart. That they could have survived the dark days together. That Aragorn, lying on his deathbed, could have held the hand of Arwen in one and in the other that of the archer who saved his life more times than any of them cared to count, and known he brought them joy.

Then his blindfold is taken off him, and Aragorn finds himself facing the last person he wants to see just then. The one person he knows can look straight into his heart.

The Lady Galadriel is standing in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter is on its way! Allow me to give you a sneak peek?
> 
> _No one can withstand the gaze of the Lady Galadriel for long, except for Legolas and Aragorn._
> 
> _Aragorn would rather not know what she has to say to the Prince of Mirkwood._


	2. Chapter 2

“Yet hope remains while all the company is true.” And with that word the Lady Galadriel holds them with her eyes, and in silence looks searchingly at each of them in turn. None save Legolas and Aragorn can long endure her glance.

And Aragorn would rather not know what she has to say to the Prince of Mirkwood.

_You are tired, Elessar._

He stays still under her gaze. Hoping against hope that she will not see what is in his heart, or stay silent on the subject at the very least. _I am always glad to be here, lady. Here my heart dwells ever, unless there be a light beyond the dark roads we still must tread_ , he replies in kind, purposefully ambivalent.

He can see her mouth twitching upwards. Of course she sees right through his subterfuge. _Your burden is heavy, Estel, and although I cannot see all things clearly, I know that you will need all your strength before the end, if we are not to go astray and leave this world to darkness. That is why I wish you would allow me to lighten your burden._

 _I do not intend any disrespect, lady,_ Aragorn says, _but my heart is too dark to see how you could._

Her smile widens. This is how Aragorn knows her: not as one of the great of the Eldar, as ruler of the heart of elvendom in Middle-earth, bearer of one of the three rings. He knows her as one who loves life, and living things, and the love that living things bear one another. _I feel that you are once more worried about your mortality, Estel. It is in the same way that you were worried when you came here eight and thirty mortal years ago and fell in love with Undómiel. Do you remember what I told you then?_

And this is the moment. This is the moment that Aragorn looks down, that he can no longer endure her gaze. _Are the thoughts I harbour not betraying the love you are reminding me of, lady?_

 _I am certain, Estel_ , she says, and her voice is kind, _that both the Greenleaf and the Evenstar would be glad to have someone to comfort them at the end of your days upon this earth, when they would otherwise be all alone with a grief that would cost them their lives if it were not shared._

Aragorn seeks out her eyes again. His expression is filled with what can only be called childish hope. He realises it must be horribly unbecoming, but he cannot find it in himself to squash the sensations, the way the beat of his heart suddenly picked up, the way his breath feels lighter, the way he no longer seems to believe that there will be no more light, not after Gandalf fell.

Galadriel is still smiling. It fades only slowly from her face.

_If they survive the dark days that lie ahead. A darkness so deep even I cannot see the light of the stars through its mighty grasp._

He swallows and looks back to the ground. 

*

When they have finally been given leave by the Lady Galadriel, the company collapses wearily into the silver grass of Lothlórien.

Their hosts have made sure to provide them with all comforts, putting up a pavilion for their guests with soft bedrolls underneath, lamps and food and drink provided a-plenty. They are grateful to be here, to be safe, and yet, they are tired.

Aragorn, whom every elf in this forest knows as Estel, goes to each member of the company, ensuring that they have everything they require. He ensures that Frodo eats, singing him a song of Bilbo’s, and that Sam goes to sleep for once instead of fretting over his master. He follows Boromir to give his brother in arms what comfort he can. He prepares a mild sleeping draught for Gimli, the dwarf requesting it speaking as softly as can be, his voice rough from tears and exhaustion and loss. He runs a soothing hand over Pippin’s forehead and through his hair as the youngest hobbit sleeps, sweat on his brow, caught in the throes of a cruel nightmare. He teaches Merry, sitting next to him and watching Pippin anxiously, an Elvish lullaby that will soothe the sleep of mortal and immortal creatures alike. Merry looks at Aragorn’s hands with something akin to wonder as Pippin slowly settles. And then he looks into Aragorn’s face, catching one of Aragorn’s hands in his, almost embarrassed: “You must rest too, Strider. Again you have led us to safety, but the roads are growing darker, and I am frightened to think of what we would do without you.”

Aragorn feels the exhaustion in every limb, his body as heavy as the gravestones of Khazad-Dûm. But he also feels warmth spread through him at the kind words of this kind hobbit. “Take your own advice, then so will I, Merry,” he says as he rises. And he intends to keep his word. 

But there is one more member of the company that he needs to tend to.

Legolas is standing amidst the tall trees of silver, looking up into their crowns. He is listening to the laments, Aragorn is sure. The Prince of Mirkwood is dressed in the silver robes of his brethren of Lórien. All the dirt and blood has been washed off his skin. The bow on his back is the only reminder of the fearsome warrior who lives within. Legolas has rarely ever seemed more kingly to Aragorn, more powerful.

More immortal.

Aragorn is still wearing his stained travel clothes. Still carrying his bloodied sword. It reminds him of another day, in another Elvenkingdom, when an exhausted Ranger fell into the arms of the Prince of Mirkwood. As on that day, Aragorn is aching for Legolas’s touch. His voice and the weight of his breath against his skin. His fingers on his face.

And yet, right this moment, Aragorn has trouble remembering what any of it feels like. Grief, grief is pulling him down, grief and the absence of hope, for how can there be any hope if any of it rests on him? Aragorn knows after all that he is a mere mortal, descended from a line of weak men, not strong enough to destroy evil instead of give in to it, time and again.

Why should he be any different?

Still, lead he must, so Aragorn approaches his friend. “Is there anything you require, my friend?” he asks, looking at his companion’s face, the skin he yearns to touch. “The others are retiring. It has been a weary day full of sorrow.”

Legolas keeps looking into the sky. “I can see no stars tonight.”

Aragorn looks up himself. Exhaustion is eating its way up through the marrow of his bones. Legolas is right. So there is something that Aragorn can do for him after all.

Slowly, he takes out the Evenstar from around his neck. “Will it give you comfort?” he asks in Elvish.  
Legolas turns to face him, surprise written all over his expression. Slowly, he takes the pendant from Aragorn, looking at it. 

It is a long, long while before he looks back up at Aragorn.

And Aragorn cannot help but lower his head in shame when those blue eyes meet his.

“Aragorn,” his friend says, urgency in his voice.

“I will retire,” Aragorn says. He has not often found himself to be a coward. But tonight, he has been through too much. He likes to think he can be forgiven just this once.

And is this how it began for Isildur, he wonders?

As Aragorn walks away, the exhaustion has reached his lungs, his throat, his aching heart. His vision turns black. For a moment, the world tilts.

There is an arm to catch him. “Have you taken a moment for yourself yet, Aragorn?” Legolas asks, voice gentle.

Aragorn could bury his face in his hands for the unmanly shame of it. Instead, he grits his teeth and focuses on the world and the way it is most certainly not allowed to tilt.

“Sit,” Legolas says, trying to lead him back towards their pavilion, but Aragorn shakes off his arm.

Legolas’s breath hitches. 

Then the elf circles him, comes to face him. He is standing so close that Aragorn cannot evade his gaze.

“Forgive me,” Legolas says.

“For what?” Aragorn asks.

Legolas smiles, although it looks tired. “For whatever it is that would make you shake me off when I offer you my help, mellon nín.”

Aragorn can feel tears burning at the back of his eyes all of the sudden. “There is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” he says.

“Yes, there is,” Legolas says. He looks at the pendant in his hand. And then at the ground. “I doubted you,” he admits. “I doubted you when you asked for all of us to be blindfolded.”

Aragorn shakes his head. “A better leader would never have put you through it.”

Legolas looks back up then, his expression fierce. “There is no better leader.”

Aragorn huffs. Legolas’s expression, if possible, turns even fiercer. 

And then he sinks to his knees in front of Aragorn.

That was not what Aragorn was expecting.

“Draw your sword,” Legolas says. 

“Legolas, don’t,” he says in Elvish. Legolas continues in the common speech: “Then my bow will have to do.”

He takes it off his back and puts it onto the ground in front of Aragorn. “My king,” Legolas says, his voice as sure as a sunrise. 

Aragorn falls to his knees in front of Legolas before the elf can continue. He takes Legolas’s face into his hands. “You have better kings to pledge your bow to, Legolas,” he says, his voice desperate. “I am not even a king.”

“You are my king,” Legolas says, as if he was speaking of the filling and waning of the moon, a thing perfectly unchanging.

Aragorn shakes his head. “I have nothing to offer you, Legolas!” He does draw his sword then, throws it on the ground between them. Makes Legolas look at the blood, the blood still sticking and sticking and sticking to the blade so much blood. “Only death,” Aragorn says. “That is all I have to offer you! Do you not understand?”

Legolas pulls him close. Aragorn stays stiff and unmoving for a moment.  
And then he lets go. In Legolas’s arms, as strong as they are lithe, with his breath against his skin, warm and alive, Aragorn can let go. He collapses into Legolas’s embrace, he lets it all go, the captain, the leader, the king. 

He is only Aragorn. He is only fear of failure and the burning wish for happiness for those that he loves.

“I love you,” Legolas says, simply. “I will follow you. I am your lionheart.”

Aragorn sinks even deeper into his arms. “I do not deserve it,” he says, so softly it might escape Legolas.

Of course it doesn’t. “Well, either way, you are stuck with it,” Legolas says, almost making Aragorn laugh. The grief for Gandalf is still too near, and they have so much yet to talk about, but it is at this moment, when Aragorn allows the first tear to fall, that he knows that he shall be all right. No matter how dark the path, he will tread it. He will follow it unto the very end. Even into the very fires of Mordor. 

Because he will not be going alone.


End file.
